


A House in the 'Burbs

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So just what happens when Illya does make a soufflé for Napoleon?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A House in the 'Burbs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [insaneladybug](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=insaneladybug).



Illya Kuryakin looked at his watch, looked at the door and then looked back at his watch again.

“Napoleon, where are you?”

After wrapping up things at hospital, Illya headed back to the house UNCLE was renting in Peaceful Havens.  Now that he and Napoleon had managed to rid the community of THRUSH, perhaps it would be peaceful, after all.

It had taken a little sweet talking with Mr. Waverly after their meeting, but Illya had managed to convince Mr. Waverly to let the two of them keep the house one more night.   The Old Man allowed as it made good sense for them to make sure THRUSH didn’t follow up with any secondary plans for Dr. Rutter.   Tomorrow, the real owners would move in, but tonight Illya had plans for Napoleon.

Illya walked to the table and sat down, then stood again and went into living room.  He hoped whoever moved in, they would rid the place of its uncomfortable furniture and garish color scheme.   He sank into an armchair that was just this side of concrete and reflected.

Last night had been interesting. 

 

****

They’d returned from the meeting and subsequent restaurant, more of a diner really.  The food has been greasy over or under cooked and left Illya with heartburn and a sense of frustration.  He really and truly had wanted to prepare a meal for Napoleon, but the man seemed determined to thwart his every effort.

Napoleon tapped his heart with his fist and burped quietly.

“You, too?” Illya locked the front door and checked the knob to make sure it was going to stay put.  So far he was as impressed with American craftsmanship as he was the Soviet’s.

“I feel like I ate a plate of lead and it’s just sitting there now.  Did you have any antacid in your kit?”

“Probably.  It’s your own fault, though.  You should have let me cook your dinner.”

“I promise you, Illya.  If we are stuck here for another night, you can cook me dinner.  Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to bed and try to dream that meal away.

Illya followed, trudging up the stairs to his bedroom while Napoleon continue a few feet more to his.

The brilliant colors of his bed room made him wince.  Whatever maniac thought purple was an appropriate color to induce sleep should be drowned in a bucket of his own paint.  It was probably the same person who thought a yellow sink, bathtub, and toilet was a good idea.  Illya’s eye ached at the thought of having to face the bathroom facilities again.

Illya stripped and tossed his clothes onto an imitation bird’s eye maple bureau. Like so many other things in this house, it looked good, but appearances lied about the workmanship.  The piece of furniture was made of pressed wood and Illya doubted it would hold up to any abuse, unlike his scarred old bureau at his apartment.  It wasn’t much to look at, but it was solid and built to last. 

They’d only brought enough clothes for a few days and Illya hoped he wouldn’t have to take on the green-hued washer and dryer in the utility room.  The dials looked more complicated that the last computer he’d blown up.  

Illya pulled on a clean tee shirt and his pajamas bottoms, then headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth.  

“Don’t forget your sunglasses,” Napoleon said as he passed, wearing a satin dressing gown and a pained expression. “Sleep tight, old man.”

“You, as well.”

                                                                                ****

The sound of a car door slamming woke Illya from his stupor and he got to his feet and looked out the window.  Napoleon was strolling up the walk, a bag in one arm.  

It had taken some serious bullying to make Napoleon agreed to spend another night in the house.  He was ready to dive back into his active social life, but Waverly’s word was law.

“About time you got here,” Illya muttered and ran a hand through his hair.

Napoleon walked in and stopped immediately, inhaling deeply.  “Boy, something smells good in here.  Take out.”

“Thank you.”  Illya relieved him of the paper bag.   “No, I am keeping you to your word.”

“Which was?”

“If we stayed one more night in this house, you would let me cook you dinner.”

“Do we still have some antacid?”

Illya’s face darkened.  “Dinner is just about ready, so if you would be good enough to get cleaned up and join me in the dining room?”

 “I suppose if I must.”

“You must or risk my ire.”

“The things I do for my partnership.”  Napoleon started to climb the stairs. “Do I have time for a shower?”

“Yes.”

“So much for that ploy.”

It took some doing, but eventually Napoleon was seated at the dining room table and a jazz album was playing quietly in the background.  There was a grim look of resolution in his face, as if he was determined to get through this event as quickly and painless as possible.

“I’ve seen you face THRUSH torturers with more anticipation, Napoleon,” Illya said as he carried the platter out and set it in front of Napoleon.  The roast was perfectly cooked and surrounded by small potatoes and other vegetables, all cooked to a turn.  It only took Napoleon one bite.  His eyes grew round and he plunged enthusiastically into his meal.

“How did you learn to cook like this?” he managed between mouthfuls.

“You forget I spent several years in Paris.  I learned something besides Quantum Mechanics?”

“How to French kiss?”

“It’s always about sex with you, isn’t it?  I learned to cook, Napoleon.  It might have escaped your notice, but I enjoy food.  It only makes sense that learn how to prepare food.”

“I am sorry I doubted you.  This is way better than a soufflé.”

“Not to fear.  That is still coming.”

“I guess I should have eggpected that.”  Napoleon grinned and reached for another piece of meat.

“Oh, Napoleon,” Illya moaned as he rose.  “If you are what you eat, then we must keep you away from the nuts.  Now finish up.”

“Why?  Is there something exciting on TV?”

“No, it’s your turn to do the dishes.  I’m going to bed.  For some reason, I think I will sleep much better tonight knowing that I proved to you that you were wrong about my cooking and that I managed to dirty every pan in the kitchen preparing this.”

Napoleon’s elation deflated and he took another bite of roast.  “I wonder if THRUSH is taking recruits.”

 

 


End file.
